Chapter 3
“Thank you, Father,” Lucy says as we stand between the pews. “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”
I give her a slight nod and smile. “Of course. Anytime. Stay safe out there.”
She grins and gives me a small wave before taking quick steps toward the front door. I notice a figure in the narthex, lingering just outside of view. Lucy spots him as well, rushing through the front doors, letting the sunlight in. It shines on him briefly before the heavy wooden door closes.
He’s wearing dark sunglasses and a hat underneath the hood of his light jacket. I can’t tell for sure, but I think he’s looking in my direction, however he’s not attempting to come farther inside.
I assume it’s the man who’s visited me twice.
Based on his disguise, he doesn’t want to be seen or recognized.
It’s the beginning of August, and therefore not too cold just yet, so the jacket and hat aren’t for warmth.
I stare back for a few seconds, lifting my hand before I walk across the room toward the confessional booth and settle inside.
A few moments later, footsteps draw closer, and then the door opens and closes.
“I didn’t realize you were wearing all that.”
I look down at my black cassock and purple stole and think this is one of the plainest outfits I wear in the church.
“Did you think I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt?”
He laughs a little. “I don’t know. Do priests ever just wear normal clothes?”
“Sure.”
“Do you always have that collar on?”
“Not always.”
“I’ve been doing research.”
“Oh? What about?”
“That sacramental vow or whatever you said.”
I smile. “The sacramental seal. What did you want to know?”
“Just how sacred it is. Some people say that priests can break the vow and tell the police.”
“Some might, but they’d likely be excommunicated for doing so.”
“So I guess it just depends on the person and how righteous they’re feeling.”
“Are you afraid I’d break the seal?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know you.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Why did you become a priest?”
“That’s a long, complicated story.”
“I have some time.”
I chuckle. “Well, I suppose it’s very similar to what you said before. We do what our dads want us to do.”
“Is your dad a priest?”
I hesitate. “No.”
“But he wanted you to be one?”
“Yes.”
“And you just said, ‘okay’?”
I laugh. “No. We fought quite a lot about that, and many other things, but eventually—”
“You did what he wanted.”
“Yes.”
“You close to him?”
“No.”
He snorts. “Makes sense.”
“What did you want to do? What did young Carlo Gallini want to be as a kid?”
“You know my name.”
“Yeah, well, I picked up one of those pamphlet things. Had your name in there.”
“Are you gonna tell me yours?”
“Probably not, Padre.”
“I see. Well, to answer your question, as a kid I obviously wanted to be a superhero. When I turned seven and realized I couldn’t do that professionally, I eventually came to the idea that I wanted to be an artist.”
“What kind?”
“A painter.”
“Are you any good?”
“I thought so.”
“That’s pretty different from what you do now.”
“Yeah, but we need both priests and artists, and I think we’re lower on priests than artists these days.”
“Hmm.”
We sit in silence again, and as soon as I’m about to open my mouth to say something, he beats me to it.
“So, you’re married to Jesus, huh?”
My eyes widen, surprised at the question. “Well—”
“I mean, you can’t get married, right?”
“Right.”
“And you don’t fuck either?”
I shift, straightening my back. I’ve never had anyone come to a confessional and talk the way he does.
“No. If I were married before I became ordained, that would be okay, but I was single, so I must remain celibate.”
He barks out a laugh. “What the hell? That’s the craziest rule I’ve ever heard of, and I’ve had some pretty strict rules. So, again, in the beginning of your twenties, you chose to live the rest of your life without ever getting your dick wet?”
I cock my head. “You know, your language—”
“Is vulgar? Yes, I know, and to be honest, I’m really toning it down in here.
Forgive me, Father.” The last part oozes with sarcasm.
“But come on, how does it keep you from doing your job? That’s probably why you’re low on priests.
These rules are asinine. Tell me, though, did you do everything you wanted before you were ordained?
Did you sow your oats?” He gets closer to the lattice, but he’s still wearing his hood, so I can only make out part of his jaw, lips, and chin.
“Confess, Father,” he teases. “Did you get your fill of pussy before you cut yourself off for life?”
I don’t answer, struck dumb. Scalding hot discomfort claws at my neck, because this stranger…
this man who comes in here and all but admits to committing crimes so unfathomable, God wouldn’t forgive him, is now questioning me, a priest, about my sex life.
Most people would have enough sense to know you can’t come in here and talk like this to a priest, but this guy doesn’t seem to care about anything.
“Father.” His voice comes through the lattice, low and teasing. “Father.” This time there’s less teasing, but his tone is an octave lower. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? All the sins you committed? Tell me one.”
I clear my throat and tug at my collar. “I’m not here to confess.”
“If you tell me something, maybe I’ll tell you something.”
Temptation conflicts with my job. Part of me wants to join him in this tit-for-tat strategy, not only to hear what he has to say, but for the ability to tell him something about myself. To tell anyone. But that’s not why I’m here.
“I don’t get anything out of that game,” I lie. “People come to me to confess. To seek absolution. You come here to question me about my personal life. I’m a priest. I’m here to help others.”
“Doesn’t mean you don’t need help. I think you’re too stiff.
Your voice is practiced. Your tone lacks warmth.
It feels like you’re trying too hard to be something you’re not.
Maybe you’re afraid the past isn’t far enough behind you.
I’ve met a lot of people, Father. Some good, most bad, all of them sinners.
I know you have skeletons in your closet. We all do.”
Once again, he knocks me off kilter a little bit. Perhaps he’s hitting a little too close to home, and that’s probably why I react the way that I do.
“You should leave. It’s well past confessional hours, and I need to go home.”
He sighs before he lets out a humorless chuckle. “All right, then.”
I see his figure pass the lattice, and then the door opens and closes before he walks away.
He was right, though. The skeletons in my closet have been waiting to be freed.